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User blog:Princess of Mousetheives/Past Shadows
Prologue Badger Lord Pinedance lowered himself into his old, worn armchair, which creaked protestingly at the sudden weight. Seated on the rocky floor in front of him was a young hare of about thirteen seasons. Tribscut. He was shaping out to be a promising one, and according to Pinedance’s old friend Abbess Tyra, his friend Willow the mousemaid was as well. The troublesome duo gazed beseechingly up at him, as they always did when they wanted something from him. He hid a chuckle as he answered. “Alright you two, what is it?” Willow, obviously the elected spokesbeast of the pair, stepped forward. She gazed up at the massive form of the Badger Lord without any semblance of fear. “We’d like to hear about your father and the Mossflower Frontier War, Pine.” Pinedance was not surprised. “You’re not old enough for it. Remember what your father told you?” he murmured softly. This was mostly true, but there was another reason. He didn’t want to recall those memories again. It had been hard enough writing his papa’s story. Memories long forgotten had been dredged up from the depths of his mind, memories so terrible, so great. The scrolls it was written on were stained with tears. But he needed to be remembered. That great Badger Lord, Broadstripe the Gentle. Pinedance’s musings were interrupted by an eager Tribscut. “Da said I’m bloomin’ ready, ole’ chap, donchaknow.” Pinedance couldn’t help but smile at the young hare’s enthusiasm. “Alright, alright...” Pinedance wondered whether he had been too hasty in his decision. This was a tale of bloodshed, of war. The tale of how the whole of the west coast - along with the fabled Salamandastron – was taken by vermin. They had come to a tentative truce after the Mossflower Frontier War, and aside from the occasional and quickly neutralised bands of vermin raiders, peace reigned throughout Mossflower. “Get started already!” Willow cried impatiently. And so Pinedance pulled out the first scroll, wondering whether he would come to regret this decision later. He began to read. Chapter One, Pinedance’s Story Addertongue the weasel stood on the deck of a great ship, one of twenty in the fleet. All of them full to the brim with vermin and weapons. A ratgaurd grasped his chafed, reddened wrists from behind, cold metal spear point pressed against his bare back. Shadowheart Deathbringer was the commander here. They all knew that. He was some obscure hybrid of rat and ferret, though much larger than either. And today, he was angry. They had come to him earlier that morning, the ratgaurds had. Bearing the news that he had been betrayed. One of them knew the secret. One of his very own crew. And they hadn’t told him. He must know the secret if he were to have a chance of taking Mossflower! Shadowheart slammed a paw down on his desk. He glanced over to the ratgaurd, still waiting in the corner of the cabin. “Bring him in,” the commander whispered venomously. Addertongue was marched in by two ratgaurds holding spears to his back. He stared levelly at Shadowheart, trying his utmost not to look afraid. Shadowheart stared right back, paw resting upon the hilt of his jewel-encrusted sword. His voice was filled with a calm, cold rage as he spoke. He liked that kind of rage. It was easy to control to his advantage. He liked things he could control. “Tell me where the secret is hiding.” Still Addertongue remained silent, though he quivered with fear. There was something he feared more than this commander. Shadowheart knew it. The vermin commander flicked his paws towards the ratgaurds, a signal. They both flicked out their daggers in fluid movements and held them to the weasel’s throat. Shadowheart’s rage lessened slightly. “Tell me,” he whispered, eyes glinting dangerously. Addertongue’s paws shuffled on the worn pine wood of he deck, and he lowered his eyes. “Please d-don’t k-kill me m-master!” he blubbered. Shadowheart drew his own sword and levelled it at Addertongue’s chest. The weasel gulped. “Tell me,” Shadowheart said, voice lowering to a menacing whisper. He punctuated each word with a prick from his sword. Outside, the woodlander slaves ceased their work and looked up, eyes conveying great pity as screams echoed across the stormy ocean. Chapter Two, Present Day Redwall The warm light of early morning cast a faint peachy glow over Redwall’s stones. Birds sang overhead, trilling softly as the dawn breeze blew in from the west, bringing scents of the ocean. Inside the cellar of the main abbey building, Redear the squirrel and Galdo the mouse sat in stony silence. At last, Redear made her move. “Saltdog.” she said resentfully, laying down a card decorated with a detailed painting of a small sailboat. Seated at the stern was a large otter. Galdo took the card into his own hand, smiling triumphantly. Stringtail the stoat watched tensely from beside the table. Stringtail, or simply String, had been accepted into the Redwall community a few seasons back, and had since become firm friends with Galdo and Redear. He watched them gamble, but mostly eyed the prize. A grand cake, topped with meadowcream, sticky greensap coated marchpane balls and little sugar puffs. Galdo confidently laid down another card. “Streamdiver,” he exclaimed, pointing at the small picture of an otter in the middle of his card. Redear grinned ruthlessly over the top of her deck and happily took the card. “Long Patroller Quartet!” The squirrel whipped four small cards, each decorated with a picture of a platoon of Long Patrol hares. “You’d need a legion o’ cooks t’ make enuff fodder fer dat lot, eh?” Stringtail chuckled. Galdo groaned, tilting backwards in his chair. “Alright! You win!” Galdo slid the cake towards Redear, who promptly split it in half with a kitchen knife. She pushed one half towards Galdo, who stared up at her in disbelief. “Take it.” she shrugged. Galdo grinned and dug in. String stood beside the table, face the picture of disappointment and betrayal. Redear laughed at his expression. “Alright, you big silly. Have this!” The squirrel broke off a large piece of her portion and passed it to the ravenous stoat. “You’re as bad as a hare!” she chuckled as String muttered thanks through mouthfuls. Holt Stormgale, West Coast Lanto chuckled without mirth, leaning against the stone wall of what had once been a friendly, inhabited otter Holt. The Stormgale otters had been close friends of his family when he was just a little pup. Even after Lanto’s Holt and family had been utterly destroyed by vermin, he would still visit this place. Have a cup of October Ale and tell travelling tales with the family. Now they were gone too. The Stormgale’s home, like Lanto’s, had been overrun by vermin bands. The inside was trashed, everything of any worth taken. The barely recognisable corpses of twelve otters were scattered about the cave. Why would anybeast do something so mindlessly cruel? ''Lanto wondered to himself, staring at the cave. He did a quick burial ceremony, then wandered landward, not wanting to stay there. Lanto sat at the crest of a small hill. He had learnt not to cry over the years. The vermin had taken everything Lanto loved, and he had vowed not to let anything they could possibly do harm him. But here he was. Sitting alone in the middle of nowhere. So he sat, staring into the distance, wishing for a different life. In the clouded sky above Lanto, another figure circled. Seeing Lanto, however, he went into a hunting dive and plummeted earthwards. Lanto glanced upwards, eyes widening in shock as he threw himself to the ground, the creature missing him by mere centimetres. The creature pulled out of its dive and turned to face Lanto. Screeching battle cries, it charged. Chapter Three '''Pine’s Story, Salamandastron' Broadstripe leaned against the window ledge, staring out to sea and the boiling storm on the horizon. A growing sense of unrest had settled itself over Salamandastron in the past season like a thick blanket of despair. The signs had started just a few months earlier. They began with little things, like when Bando the Friar had spilled hot water over Hilde’s foot, or when Koli had knocked Fallon the Swordsmaster down the stairs with a wooden practice sword. But they had gotten steadily worse. Bando putting wolfsbane in the soup and claiming it was an accident. Swordplay students knocking each other out. Niff dropping a boulder on Truff. Most would have dismissed these occurrences as little accidents, small problems in the cycle of life. And yet… Twelve hares killed. By little ‘accidents’. Broadstripe was a seasoned warlord, and he too would have payed no attention, but for that small sense of sheer wrongness. It wasn’t right that so many were killed. And a tiny part of Broadstripe’s consciousness screamed that this was not normal. That normally, the Badger Lord would pay attention to these deaths. But they were just petty little hares. Why should''' I, a mighty lord, care about them-' Broadstripe shook his large head. There it was again. That thirst to kill, to hate all around him just because they dared to live. ''It wasn’t right. No, this was not normal. A gentle knock came at iron cast door. Broadstripe didn’t notice.' The longears had no right to live, they violate my rules, my protocols, they-' 'The knock came again, louder and more insistent this time. Broadstripe broke out of his reverie, looking up. Death was spelt clearly in his eyes as he lumbered over to the door, opening it. He raised his sword, and swung it down at-' Fallon. The old hare stepped a full foot backwards, eyes widening to clearly show the wrinkles that had recently deepened. Fallon’s instinct was to draw his sword, but somehow it didn’t seem necessary. He stepped out of harm’s way, planning to simply let things play out. He pondered the Badger Lord’s strange behaviour. The seasoned fighter had never seen things so bad here at Salamandastron. The deaths, the unrest, the disorder. Surely Broadstripe should be doing something about it? He had not earned the nickname ‘Gentle’ for nothing. But there were rumours, rumours that anyone who opposed the lord would be dead within the second. But surely, surely they were just that- rumours? Broadstripe halted mid-swing, a battle raging behind his eyes. ''They are disobedient, treasonous longears. They must die. They must all die. That is Fallon. My faithful friend. My swordsmaster. My friend. My friend. Kill him. We must KILL HIM! Wait- since when is it WE? This is MY mind, and MY fort. Please, kindly, LEAVE! I am you, Broadstripe. I am you, and you are me. We are united for one single purpose. Well, let me guess what that would be. Is it, by any chance to- KILL THE LONGEARS?! Err, I mean hares. At least you are not too slow on the uptake. Yes, that is our purpose. You are obviously an idiot. Now, LEAVE! With an immense surge of mental energy, Broadstripe pushed the invading mind away. He was left free to ponder the meaning of this strange occurrence. He found that the one thing he was sure of was that it - whatever ‘it’ was – would be back. Fort Streamdale, Present Day Willow and Tribscut stared up at Lord Pinedance, entranced by the story. Willow was the first to realise he had stopped. “Um, Lord Pinedance, sir, is that all?” Pinedance chuckled. “No, it’s not all, Willow. But it’s all for tonight.” Tribscut, now fully awakened from the world of the story, groaned loudly along with Willow. “Aww, but Piney, old chap! Can we have more tomorrow, wot wot?” Pinedance pretended to look thoughtful for a second, drawing out the expectant sighs from the young ‘uns as long as he could. Then he nodded. “I suppose that’d be alright, as long as you do your chores for your mama!” He ruffled Willow and Trib’s ears as he brushed by them and walked out of the room. Alone his bedchamber, Pinedance began to reflect on the troubles of that day. Little things, like when Hoka dropped a rock on Pipo’s footpaw, or when Norfin tripped Jallok over on the stairs. Something about it seemed wrong. Most would have dismissed these occurrences as little accidents, small problems in the cycle of life. And yet… Twelve hares injured. By little ‘accidents’. Pinedance was a seasoned warlord, and he too would have payed no attention, but for that small sense of sheer wrongness. It wasn’t right that so many were harmed. And a tiny part of Pinedance’s consciousness screamed that this was not normal. That normally, the Badger Lord would pay attention to these injuries. But they were just petty little hares. Why should I, a mighty lord, care about them- Pinedance shook his large head. There it was again. That thirst to kill, to hate all around him just because they dared to live. ''It wasn’t right. No, this was not normal. Did something about this seem a bit too familiar? Pinedance shook the feeling off and returned to his work. Chapter Four '''Near Holt Stormgale, Present Day' Lanto dived just in time, barely avoiding the razor sharp talons of his attacker. The thing screeched and began to hop about in mad rage. Lanto took this time to draw his dagger – the sword had tumbled down the hill after the first attack - and haul himself to his feet. The creature turned, and as if on cue, rain began to hammer down with a vengeance. Icy cold drops slid down Lanto’s fur behind his leather armour and saturated his neck. The dagger began to grow slippery in his grasp as the creature poised to attack again. Lanto’s vision was blurred with rain drops, but nevertheless, he charged. “FOR STOOORMGAAALE!” he yelled, raising his dagger above his head in memory of his dead friends. Mossflower Woods, Present Day Bluebrush shivered. “I’m cold!” the ferret complained. He rocked back and forth on the ground, trying to avoid a puddle of thick, black mud that intercepted the usual damp leaf litter. Nearby, a young weasel was making an effort to light a small fire by rubbing two sticks together. He turned irritably. “I know that, Blue! Don’t go thinkin’ I’m no brains an’ all digestitive – I think that’s how ye say it – system. I’m not like ye, me ole’ mucker. I’m tryin’ t’ light a fire! Yer not ‘elpin, all ye ever do is sit there an’ complain!” The smaller ferret continued to rock back and forth, a frown of concentration plastered across his features. Then, as comprehension dawned on him, he began to rage. “Dogthief! Ye called me No-Brains! I’m no no brainser! I go’ just as much brains as ye! An’ I was helpin’ with th’ fire, see, ole’ mukker?” Bluebrush proceeded to haul himself to his feet, then loped over to the small trail of smoke issuing from Dogthief’s sticks. He began to blow vigorously at the small, glowing ember that lay between sticks. It flickered twice, then snuffed out. Dogthief stood up, paws akimbo. “Now look what ye done! I think that yer parents shoulda named ye Dead’ead.” Bluebrush retreated to his corner of the clearing, muttering to himself. “Well, Dogthief’s a stoopid name. Wot kinda parent names ‘is kin Dogthief?” “I ‘eard that!” came Dogthief’s answering shout. An awkward silence sprang between the two comrades as Dogthief returned to his work at conjuring up a fire. Bluebrush pulled a rusty, silver-handled dagger out of his kelp belt and thrust it into a nearby tree. He pulled it out again. “I’m ‘ungry! Y’know that’s never goin’ t’ work, right?” he questioned, addressing Dogthief. The taller weasel persisted. “Yes it will Blue! I saw a bunch o’ micies doin’ it, an’ it worked!” Bluebrush plunged his dagger into the tough bark of the tree once more, then strode over to Dogthief. He snatched the sticks from the larger weasel, who looked confused for a second. Then he charged, and the pair began to wrestle. “Ya snatched me stick!” “Well, you called me Dead’ead!” “Ow! Stop that!” “You punched me, Dead’ead!” “Well, you kicked me, Dogbrains!” Both creatures were unaware of anything but the fight. Unaware of the hungry eyes watching from the bushes. Unaware of the dagger wrenched from a tree on the far side of the clearing. Unaware of the bow, aimed and ready to shoot. Western Ocean, Pine’s Story Kilgan dangled his legs over the side of the Darkness, ''grasping his fishing rod with both hands. He eyed the water intently, waiting for the tell-tale signs that he had made a catch. The line went taught, and then began to leap about like some wild animal. Kilgan stood quickly, and began to haul. The rod bent, and Kilgan strained with all his might. The unfortunate searat stumbled onto a coil of rope lying in the center of the deck. He slipped backwards, skidded to a halt, slammed into the mast and fell flat on his tail. A small silver fish flew out of the water and landed with a splot on the deck, and the fishing rod fell beside it. Kilgan groaned loudly. A larger, bulkier rat wandered across the deck and stood, paws akimbo, over Kilgan. His voice was oily and smooth. “Got some fish, eh, Kilgan?” The only answer the smaller rat gave was a soft groan. It was well known that Slidjer was the slimiest, dirtiest beast there ever was. He spied for Shadowheart, and many a good seabeast had died because of him. He was also the most cowardly beast on board. Slidjer replied with a cruel grin as he kicked Kilgan in the ribs. “Cat got yer tongue, eh? Anyhow, I’m sure Capn’d appreciate a bit o’ meat,” he snarled, punching Kilgan’s face. Slidjer bent down, pulled the fish off the tiny silver hook and strode away. The smaller rat painstakingly hauled himself upright, spitting out a broken tooth. Slidjer opened the door to his cabin, relishing the thought of fresh meat. Ha! He had really played that little fool of a rat! Had Kilgan really thought he would give the fish to Shadowheart? The little idiot. He laughed to himself and sat on the edge of his hammock. The door creaked open. Slidjer answered with a scowl. “Wot is it?!” The tall figure of Shadowheart loomed in the doorway. “I believe you owe me some fish, Slidjer?” he asked, though anybeast with sense would know this was not a question. Slidjer pulled himself out of the hammock and looked around for someplace to hide. Nowhere. He gulped, and turned to face his much feared commander. “I, I was just lost, that was all, have yore fish. Here, here it is, sir.” The cowardly rat showed Kilgan’s fish to Shadowheart, who smiled dangerously. “Ah, but the question is, is that the truth?” Shadowheart circled his prey, paw resting on dagger hilt. “Or are you a filthy tongued liar?” '''Bank of the River Moss, Present Day' In his canvas tent, Shadowheart wiped the fresh blood off his blade with a small velvet cloth. As he glanced out the open door flap, he began, unwillingly, to reflect on what he thought of as The Before. What good was living forever if it did nothing to erase these memories? He couldn’t think about this. He had changed. The Before Shadowheart was practically a different creature to him. Except it wasn’t Shadowheart, Before. That was just a name he had made for himself. Somehow he had thought that if he changed his name, he could shed the memories. Now it just helped to strike fear into his army. The Before Shadowheart was called Appleby. Simple Appleby. The heat of the sun beat fiercely down on the beach, thin tent material doing little to dampen it. The hot, drowsy autumn day took its’ toll on Shadowheart – Appleby. His head began to droop, and, paw still resting on the hilt of his sword, he nodded off into a light sleep. By no means, however, was it peaceful. The young ferrat – as he preferred to call himself – sat by the edge of the frozen pool, reflecting on the somewhat disturbed day. His sister had said something strange. What was it? His face turned white as the snow that blanketed the frozen ground. He ran, waist deep in snow, wading down the path that led back to the cottage. No. NO! He could not let this happen. Aly, the only friend he knew. But, by the time he got there, it was just bloodstains, tainting the cruel snow. The cruel, cruel snow. All that was left of his sister were bloodstains. Bloodstains and memories. Shadowheart awoke with a start, finding himself sweating and wrapped in blankets. Aly! He had seen Aly! Aly, his sister. Not biological sister, but his sister. Then he remembered, forcing all thoughts of his sister to the bottom of his brain. Aly is gone. All Shadowheart lived for now was to kill. Every blow struck, every creature dead, was a joy. Every time he killed, in his head he was killing the mice who took Aly from him. Doing what he had failed to do the first time. I failed you, Aly… I loved you… Redwall, Present Day Stringtail wandered through the empty Great Hall, playing in the different coloured rays of sunlight that poured through the stained-glass windows. Redear and Galdo, his only friends in the whole of Redwall, had been sent to do kitchen duty with him. The kitchen was packed with singing workers, shoving cakes, pies and other deliciously scented delicacies into the huge ovens. Stringtail grimaced slightly. It was his job to clean the slimy, leftover encrusted plates, bowels and cutlery. Shoving his way through the mob of staff, Stringtail made his way to the sinks, where Redear and Galdo were impatiently waiting. “Took you long enough!” Galdo commented as Stringtail approached. The grumpy little stoat tripped over a kitchen worker’s tail, grabbed hold of a plate to steady himself, and sent the whole lot crashing down onto his footpaw. Redear barely suppressed a chuckle as the unfortunate stoat hopped about in agony, clutching his injured paw. Noticing this, Stringtail narrowed his eyes in what he thought to be a threatening manner. “It’s a wound o’ war, so quit laughin’ yer heads off.” Galdo choked back another wave of laughter as he attempted to answer. “What war? I don’t see any vermin goin’ t’ war on you!” Stringtail answered coolly. “Th’ plate attacked me, along with it’s army o’ bowls. I defeated them in th’ end, though!” He gestured at the splintered remains of the dishes that carpeted the floor. “See, I even made up a small song about it!” Stringtail clasped his paws in front of his chest and tried to look noble. “''Alas, I must tell ye,'' Of a terrible event, Twas in th’ kitchens, That an army of plates were sent! They made war on Redwall, And "help help!” Cried Ears of Red, “''We’ll surely be gone an’ dead,'' Before this dreadful day is done!” But the battle of the kitchens had not yet been won. Through the door marched Stringtail, The brave little stoat. “''I’ll be true and never fail!”'' He cried boldly as he crossed the moat. So the fabled day was won, Though String was injured sorely. Just as sudden as the battle had begun, It was done, No thanks to Redear and Galdo, surely.” Galdo promptly fell forward, shaking with laughter. Friar Bentley shoved his way through the crowded kitchen towards the troublesome trio. He frowned and shook his head at the sight of the broken dishes. Paws akimbo, he raised his glare to Redear, Galdo and Stringtail. “And what exactly is going on here?” Stringtail readily relied, “We were talkin’ about… Snails.” Seeing no option but to agree, the others nodded. “Yeah. Snails.” Bentley scowled. “Really? How… Interesting. Now, Stringtail, come with me.” He grabbed the unfortunate stoat by the ear, and oblivious to his cries of protest, dragged him towards the gaping doorway. “I knew taking in a useless vermin would mean trouble...” he muttered. Category:Blog posts Category:Unfinished Fanfiction Category:Fanfiction